


Genesis 6:11

by Verabird



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Chabouillet is an overprotective awkward dad, Gentle Sex, Gisquet is there, Javert is confused about most things, M/M, Post-Seine, Sexy times in prison, Shaving, Valjean is too nice for this world, Wrist Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: No one's letting Javert near a gun or an interesting case until he proves he isn't going to blow his brains out at the earliest opportunity.And the new menial job he's been given is completely unchallenging. He's interviewing cold case witnesses up at the prison, and God it's boring, and nothing happens and it's dull as hell.But then a prison riot breaks out. And Valjean is there. And Valjean is going to save him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



“For the charge of insurgence we find the defendant guilty.”

The court room, which was almost empty apart from a few gawking members of the public scattered around, made a collective murmuring noise of agreement. It had been expected.

“For the charge of escaping prison, three counts, we find the defendant guilty.”

The room didn’t even bother to make a noise this time. The juror that had risen at the edge of the raised platform and was currently reading the decisions from a piece of paper was young, less than thirty, yet his cruel brow and piercing eyes demonstrated no understanding whatsoever of the importance of the jury’s conclusions. The government had bred generations of citizens brimming with hatred and a sense of perverted justice, jury duty was considered an honour, and most citizens engaged in their public duty with delight rather than severity, excitement over carefulness. The judge presiding over the case didn’t appear to be listening, he had his notes in front of him, a navy folder shielding his writing, but the clerk by his side could see the outlines of a partially filled in sodoku. He kept silent because he knew what was good for him.

There was no defense lawyer, the defendant had refused one, and this made one less expense necessary. He was staring resolutely at the floor, his lips pressed firmly together in an expressionless line, but his shoulders betrayed his despair. He had sunken lower into the spindly wooden chair, his long fingers laced neatly together before him on the chestnut table had begun to shake slightly, and as the juror read off another count he was guilty of he closed his eyes releasing a single tear to trickle pathetically down his cheek.

It had been a sordid nightmare these past few months. Transported from jail cell to court room, endlessly it seemed, and the waiting and the waiting, the fits of panic and dreams worse still that broke up the terrible days, Valjean had kept praying through all of it, but rather than pray for freedom he prayed for the peace of a max security prison where he could remain in stillness for the rest of his days. He didn’t expect to last long. He had little hope left, only the sanctity of God protected him from utter hopelessness, but he knew once he reached prison that he would softly depart from this world that had treated him with such ill.

The juror was still speaking. There were so many charges. Kidnapping, embezzlement, fraud, identity fraud, several counts of that one, and it just kept going on and on. Couldn’t the judge put on his black cap and point a finger down at the frail man beneath him and pronounce his fate with a single guilty? Valjean pushed himself upright using the palms of his cuffed hands on the edge of the table, and turned to glance round the court room. The juror’s steady cold voice drifted into the numb background as he faced each man. There was a dark screen just behind him to the left, and it was from here that he’d heard faceless voices denounce him from beyond their witness protection. Had he recognised any of them? No, he was sure of that. Maybe they’d been paid off by someone to testify against him, but then again, who would bother with that expense? There had been testimonies from men with faces too, and he’d recognised a few of them. He’d recognised one particular face very clearly, and he had stared in despair at first, for he knew this man would denounce him most furiously of all, but then he had just grown confused and all the more helpless.

Javert hadn’t testified for Valjean. He hadn’t testified against him either. He had been honest, and that’s what Valjean fully expected of him, at least he had been fully honest at first. He hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t told the full truth, and all the while as Javert spoke words that could neither save nor damn him, Javert had stared resolutely ahead and avoided Valjean’s desperate gaze.

_“Inspector, just to be clear, you are certain that this man, Jean Valjean, did not assault you on the night in question?”_

_“He did not.”_

_“Of the two times that you met that night did you—”_

_“Three times.”_

_“Of the three times that you met that night, in not one encounter did he attempt to fight you, verbally or physically, or in any way harm you?”_

_“No.”_

_“We have heard your accounts of the night in question, and you would have this court believe that not only did Jean Valjean not take the opportunity to cause you harm, but rather saved your life?”_

_“It is true. Twice.”_

It was not what the prosecution had wanted to hear, and to them it made no sense among the other accusations and the rest of the evidence that they had presented. It provided them with further proof that Valjean had been among the rebels at the barricade, Javert himself had confirmed it by recounting the tale in which Valjean had set him free. But then, for Valjean to risk his own life to pull a man, who for all intents and purposes was his enemy, from the deathly strong currents of the river….it made no sense to anyone. Least of all to Valjean, and he was the one who’d done it. In his memory of the scene, he recalled a figure leaping from the parapet, and he had been compelled to rescue them. The detail that it had been Javert made little difference to him, and if he concentrated hard he could almost pretend to forget it.

Javert had been questioned on these points first, and so for one strange moment Valjean had been mildly convinced that Javert was about to give a good character reference for him, but then he launched into their shared history, and the telling of those stories had shown Valjean in a less than positive light. These were the tales that the prosecution leapt on, and they asked Javert to recount them in detail, which the Inspector did, honestly and truthfully, but still Valjean was confused. Especially when by the end of Javert’s testimony he requested a minute from the judge, and with that time he had…pleaded? No, that was the wrong word, stated, perhaps, that Valjean should not be subject to the death penalty, but rather a maximum life sentence in prison. It would be more just, Javert had said, more just.

Just. Was anything just in Valjean’s life any more? He had long ago granted all his life and suffering to God, so he had no right to complain. Yet despite Javert’s words, Valjean almost wished he could be granted a swifter exit.

The juror was coming to the end of the long list of charges and the judge was reluctantly paying attention again. He was waiting impatiently for the man to finish so that he could pass sentence and then go home to an early night.

“For the charge of insulting a police officer, we find the defendant…” The head juror paused for a moment, his upper lip curling into a disappointed sneer. “Not guilty.”

It was a small and strange mercy. Yet it made no difference, he was guilty of everything else, and Valjean had barely cycled a breath before the judge had hammered in three life sentences to be served consecutively.

 

* * *

 

Javert waited impatiently outside his superior’s office for his knock to be answered. His hands were curled into nervous fists and he was pressing his nails into his palms. His heart hammered and he knew why, but he had to pretend not to know, not to care, and of course he did not care, not one ounce.

Except that damn it all, he did. He knew Valjean didn’t stand a chance of getting off, but he hoped, he had even dared to pray, that the man’s life would be spared. It wasn’t a moral thing, far from it, Javert desired justice and balance, and Valjean had saved his life. He’d saved it twice over, in one single night, and Javert would repay that debt before Valjean would be lost to the prison system and out of his mind at last.

“Come in.”

Javert’s hand slipped on the door knob, and he took a moment to gather his composure so he’d look far more collected when he entered Chabouillet’s office. Chabouillet glanced up, then back down, his expression unmoved. He wasn’t pleased to see Javert, his Inspector had caused him more trouble than the paperwork was worth these past weeks.

“Ah, it’s you.” There was no hint of anything in his tone, but he gave Javert a professional smile and gestured to the seat in front of him. “Every thing’s come back already, you’ll be pleased to here.”

Javert glanced at the paper on top of Chabouillet’s desk and upside down he read the cover of his psychiatric evaluation. Chabouillet had forced him to go for one, refused to accept him back into the service unless he did, and in the meantime his gun had been confiscated. Javert was being watched and monitored closely, it was too obvious to miss, and Chabouillet’s efforts to ensure Javert was not left alone in any capacity were not subtle enough to be ignored. Did the man really believe that Javert would attempt to off himself the moment he was by himself? Perhaps he did.

“Well Monsieur?”

Chabouillet clenched his jaw visibly and Javert saw the slightest twitch in his hand. “It’s not good.”

“Oh.”

Javert thought it would have been fine. He’d lied enough, even though it had physically hurt sometimes, and he thought he’d presented himself as a calm and collected individual. He wanted his gun back because it didn’t feel natural to not have it at his waist, and he wanted to be allowed on cases which were supposedly traumatic, he was tired of petty robberies.

“Well, it’s not that bad, but it’s not the best.” Chabouillet flicked through the pages of the evaluation and sighed heavily. “Believe me Javert, I’m just as annoyed as you that I can’t send you into the field properly. I’ve practically lost my best officer.”

“Then let me at least try.”

“It’s not my decision.”

Javert didn’t want to press that it was Chabouillet’s decision. Surely he could circumvent the doctor’s orders. Javert looked closer at his patron’s face and saw this for himself, and saw that Chabouillet would not want to put him in harm’s way, no matter how inconvenient.

“Maybe I should resign.”

Chabouillet waved him away. “No, I won’t hear of it, you’ll be back on you feet eventually. You’re going to the counseling I arranged?”

“Yes,” Javert lied.

“Well that will help. In the meantime, perhaps we could send you up to the prison to do some informant questioning?” He posed it as a question, but it was a statement, and Javert knew it was this non-strenuous work or nothing at all.

“Yes Monsieur.”

“You might find it rewarding, or at least challenging.”

“Yes Monsieur.”

“Good man.”

 

* * *

 

 

Valjean fell easily into the steady routine of prison. He found he enjoyed some of the rituals in their own special way, but mostly he was glad for the peace it granted him. He knew where to find silence and he knew where to find reasonable companionship. He was old and scarred, tattooed, experienced, the other prisoners knew to leave him alone. He commanded a certain respect among them and felt no fear in walking across the yard.

It had been hard at first, as it always was, but he hid his tears under the cover of night and thrust his face into his pillow to mask the sobs. He had a room which he shared with just one other inmate, a man named Gaudin, who had taken part in a series of armed bank robberies.

“Didn’t seem fair that all the money should be in one place, and none of us could have any of it.”

Valjean understood.

Gaudin was younger than Valjean, early thirties at the most, but he’d given his life away to the prison system, and it was unlikely that he’d ever be free. He’d been here three years, and Gaudin told Valjean that it felt like a lifetime already, but there was nothing else to do except sit it out, find a life behind the bars that was worth something.

“Have you thought of escaping?” Valjean asked. It was innocent enough to ask such a question. He wasn’t about to give the man tips, or even encourage the idea, but he knew that after his first three years in prison he was sick of the whole system, furious with it, and he’d tried numerous times to escape.

Gaudin shrugged. “No point.”

Valjean had gently probed this, but Gaudin had muttered something about “only a little left to lose” and then rolled onto his side facing the wall to signify the conversation was over.

Valjean had visitation rights. He was surprised about this, then pleased, but after thinking it through he realised he couldn’t invite Cosette to a place like this. During his visitation hours he stayed in his room and stared at the blank white ceiling, projecting his happy thoughts of Cosette onto it. It was better that she stayed away.

Of course Cosette had a mind of her own, and she dutifully showed up once a week. She hugged her father tightly during the one touch they were allowed, and then spoke for the full hour about her life, the wedding, Marius, her strange new father-in-law, the new house, the old house, the city, how unfair everything was, how much she loved him. Valjean craved and relished every second of it and he thought himself a fool for trying to deny himself this small pleasure.

 

* * *

 

 

Javert liaised with the officer who usually dealt with informants and was handed a large stack of case files.

“Each has associated witnesses currently in the system,” The officer said with a touch of boredom in his voice. “They’re all cold or back burner cases, so no particular order, I’m pretty sure some of the prisoners just die before we get to them.”

“Does that happen often?”

“More than you’d think.”

“So most of these witnesses are older?”

The officer gave Javert a pointed look that Javert resented greatly. “It’s a mix, but life expectancy in prison is the same whatever age you go in, right?”

Javert took the case files and flicked through them. He saw names he himself had arrested, names he recognised from high profile cases, and some he didn’t recognise at all. He’d avoid the ones he’d arrested, he was sure they’d be able to smell his weakness, sniff the vulnerability right off him. This was a demotion, he knew it, Chabouillet knew it, this young officer whose job he was usurping knew it too. It was embarrassing.

“All the info’s in there. You contact the prison and give them names, then you just show up the next day and see what you can get out of them. Nothing much comes of it, but they don’t expect much.”

“They?”

“You know, the higher ups.”

Javert wrinkled his nose. That should have been him. Did he pay much attention to the cold cases and prison runs that the junior officers were doing? He didn’t even know this was a full time job, though he must have been aware of it at some point.

“Okay, I get it,” Javert said after a long silence. He wanted to be left alone now. The junior officer didn’t move, but hovered awkwardly in front of him and shrugged apologetically. Javert realised why.

“It’s okay, you can go, I promise I won’t kill myself.”

The officer didn’t move.

Javert sighed. “Chabouillet’s direct orders?”

The officer nodded.

“He’ll kill you if you don’t follow them, is that right?”

Slightly more hesitation this time, but Javert got a nod out of it in the end. He let out a heavy breath and began massaging his temples. Maybe he should take the leave of absence he’d been offered. It was paid, everyone thought him a fool for letting it go.

Javert clutched the stack of files and pushed through the door that led through to the main station where there were desks of officers he could hide amongst. The officer flailed a bit as he hurried to follow Javert out into the mess of desks. Javert found he’d walked into silence, and most of the other gendarmes were pretending not to be staring right at him, but after a few moments the buzz of noise cluttered the room once more.

He passed Chabouillet’s office, then walked back a few paces and knocked. He wasn’t sure what he’d say, there was nothing to confront him about, but he wanted to shake the annoying junior officer off his back and this seemed the best way. Chabouillet called for Javert to come in, and for a split second his face fell as Javert entered, but he caught himself quickly and smiled as best he could.

“I see you have the new cases,” He said quickly, determined that there wouldn’t be any empty space in the conversation. “Anything interesting? You can do them in any order you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“There’s good stuff in there, even a few murders, you’ll like that, it will keep you interested.”

Javert nodded because he wanted Chabouillet to believe in him even if he didn’t himself. He glanced down at the top paper and saw that it was a missing child, gone for nearly twenty years that spring. The witness would be in his seventies if he was still alive at all, a sighting and positive ID that hadn’t matched the physical evidence, and then the criminal had been picked up for battery later that year and given a hefty sentence anyway. Nothing else had come of it. Javert doubted he’d make much difference.

“Yes Monsieur, some of it looks….interesting.”

“Make a decent go of it, if anyone can then you can.”

“Yes Monsieur.”

“Who are you taking with you?”

“Monsieur?”

Chabouillet tried to look bright as he casually reminded Javert that he wasn’t allowed to be left alone and that an officer must accompany his visits.

“I am quite capable of managing these visits by myself.”

“I know you are Javert, but that’s not the point. They’re not my orders.”

Javert realised he’d been gripping the cases so tightly that he’d left a marked crease down the sentence of the pack. He loosened his grip and relaxed in an attempt to look more normal. He was pretty sure that they were in fact Chabouillet’s orders, and this time he was going to argue them a little.

“I would be weighed down by another officer.”

“I agree, which is why I suggest you take someone administrative. They could ensure minimal paperwork for you, less headaches, but they won’t impinge on your case.”

That was even worse than an officer. If Chabouillet foisted one of the station’s useless clerks or secretaries on him then he’d be held back even more.

“I work my best alone.”

“You’ll appreciate some help with the reports, it will ensure your mind is completely on the task.”

“Do you assume it won’t be?”

“Javert,” Chabouillet said in a warning tone. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“I want to work this alone,” Javert insisted, swimming against the current in these dangerous waters.

“And I have orders that say you can’t.”

“Whose orders? Monsieur Gisquet’s? Allow me to speak to him then and—”

“Javert! That is enough!” Chabouillet had risen from his desk and any pretense at lightness was gone. “I have made allowances for you in these past weeks that have put my own position at risk, I have done my best for you, but I will not tolerate any more of this insolence. You will do the work that you’ve been given. You will be accompanied by a Prefect official, I will assign someone suitable, but you will have to be accompanied by someone, and that condition is out of my hands.”

Javert, usually the wolf hunting at the head of the pack, was trawling behind, a broken creature with a lame leg and a limp. He had thought he could fool everyone into thinking he was fine, but he had failed, and now Chabouillet had cracked in front of him. He was a failure, a useless tool of justice.

He bowed his head. “My apologies Monsieur.”

“I understand, I really do, but I’ve helped you as much as I can.”

Javert nodded, hiding a grimace of shame.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaudin was easy to talk to when he was in the mood, and Valjean didn’t mind sharing a cell with him. There wasn’t much space between them, the cell was thin with two beds just tall enough to sleep in, a set of shelves beside each. The ceiling was low too, and the single window was a small square hidden by bars high up on the white-washed stone wall, giving the entire cell a cramped and claustrophobic feel. Gaudin was quiet and kept to himself, and Valjean was much the same, but occasionally they shared words with each other.

Gaudin was one of seven brothers, and all but two were sitting in jail cells around the country. Separate prisons all of them, and long enough sentences that it was unlikely they’d ever meet again. They wrote though, and Valjean found a certain enjoyment in watching Gaudin’s excitement whenever he returned with a letter, each read thoroughly and then reverently placed in order on his shelf. Valjean had written letters himself, but he didn’t keep the ones that were written back to him. Mainly from Cosette, the small neat lettering filled him too much with sorrow, and it was better to not keep earthly things.

It was a hot morning and both men were lying in their beds, the single sheet thrown off. Valjean absently played with the cool material that bunched around his ankles, gazing up at the small window. The sky was a hot white, and he hadn’t seen a bird all day, but still he stared at it because there wasn’t much else to do.

“It’s visitation today,” Valjean said to break the silence. Sometimes he could hear the distant sounds of the prison, or birdsong in the grounds outside, but it had been an unbearably quiet morning.

“I haven’t got anyone today.”

“I thought you had Claude.”

“He’s gone up to Birchant instead, we clash.”

Valjean nodded in understanding. Of the two brothers left outside prison walls, they did a dutiful job visiting the other five, but it must be a complicated schedule.

“What about you?” Gaudin asked, turning onto his side and leaning a chin on his palm.

“Not today,” Valjean spoke too softly for prison. He’d forgotten how to behave in one. “I might walk past the hall later though.”

“I might join you.”

Valjean smiled. The visitation hall was separated from the main prison, but from a certain angle one could look through two panes of carefully placed glass and witness the visitation proceedings. Valjean enjoyed watching happy people reunite if only for brief moments.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Javert had hoped that he’d be stuck with one of the quieter clerks who wouldn’t object to being shoved to one side whilst he did his work, someone subtle, someone unassuming.

“This is all so incredibly exciting!”

“No,” Javert said. “It isn’t.”

Someone quiet, someone who sat still and didn’t comment on absolutely every single thing, someone who would just leave him damn well alone.

“I’ve only ever been to prison once before, on an inspection with Monsieur Gisquet, but he made me wait outside because it was a security risk.”

“You, a security risk? Imagine that.”

Javert had to hand it to Chabouillet. Ernest was so irritatingly present that it would be impossible to slip away unnoticed and shove a gun up to his temple. Not that Chabouillet had given him his gun back yet, it was far too soon for that, but Javert couldn’t exactly drive his car the wrong way down a busy highway with someone innocent sitting in the passenger seat. Chabouillet was counting on Javert’s moral compass still being in tact.

Javert questioned that. He wasn’t sure anymore exactly where his moral compass was pointing. He saw the image of Valjean in his mind’s eye, resolute and calm at his fate, but his eyes wet. This had disturbed Javert the most. Had he seen Valjean cry before? He couldn’t remember it. Not in prison, not when he was guard, Valjean wouldn’t dare cry in front of the other prisoners. In Montreuil? No, not there, and never once in Paris. He saw Valjean carted back to a life of misery, and he saw himself say the bare minimum, the truth, but not enough to stop it. He knew he couldn’t stop this course of the law, there was nothing else he could do, but maybe his words in the court room had only served to goad Valjean further into his black despair.

Ernest was tugging on his sleeve, rousing him from this unsettling image. “Inspector?”

“What?”

Ernest’s face morphed into a picture of perfect sincerity. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Javert tossed Ernest the keys to the unmarked car they would drive to the prison. Ernest stared at them for a moment. Javert quickly grew impatient. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t drive.”

“Well what’s the point of you then,” Javert grumbled, snatching the keys from Ernest’s hands and marching to the parking lot without looking back. Ernest paused for a moment then started into action, trotting quickly to keep up.

“Do I get to come inside?”

So, Javert thought, Chabouillet hadn’t given Ernest the speech that he needed to keep Javert in sight or else Javert might walk off the nearest cliff. He was mildly grateful.

“I suppose so.”

“Do I get to see the criminals?”

“It’s not a zoo, it’s a federal corrections facility.”

Ernest licked his lips innocently. “I don’t think I’d be very good at prison,” He said thoughtfully, climbing into the inconspicuous black car. Javert sighed and rolled his eyes where it wouldn’t be seen before seating himself in the driver’s seat.

“It’s not something you can be good at. It’s not something you do, it’s just something that happens to you.”

“Mmm,” Ernest murmured. “I think you’d be good at prison Monsieur Javert.”

Javert’s hands tensed against the wheel and he breathed slowly to regain some composure. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been in one before.”

“Who told you that?” His voice picked up a little, but he was still relatively calm given the circumstances.

Ernest frowned. “I thought everyone just knew.”

“Ah, I see.” Javert barked a laugh and Ernest winced. He glanced behind him before reversing and directing the car out into moving traffic before speaking again. “I’m a regular source of gossip.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise it was so shameful to be a prison guard.”

Javert flicked a glance to his right to take Ernest in. He still looked so serious, his eyes bright, as if every movement of Javert’s was something fascinating to behold.

“Oh. That. I thought you meant— Never mind.”

“I’m sorry I—”

“I said never mind.”

There was silence for a long time. The prison was a good half hour drive out from the precinct, but the traffic was heavy. Ernest attempted to put on the radio a couple of times but Javert quickly switched it off again without a word. Eventually he turned to leaning his chin in his hand and staring out the window.

The city gave way to suburbs and then to more rural territory. The landscape flitted into a blur of yellow tones that made Javert feel hot even with the comfortable air conditioning of the police issue car.

“What are prisoners like?”

Javert blinked. He’d been enjoying the pleasant silence for a while now, but Ernest had become bored with staring out the window and had returned to his probing.

“They’re just people. Normal people. Some are evil, the lowest scum of our society, some have just made mistakes.”

“How do you tell the difference?”

“Most people can’t.”

“But you can?” Ernest sounded sincere, as if he truly believed Javert to be the man who could determine the wheat from the chaff.

“No. No I can’t. Sometimes I’m not sure, and other times, well, one time I was completely wrong.”

“Which one have we come to see?”

One hand on the wheel, Javert reached behind him to the back seat and half threw the case file at Ernest. It was a grim case, a shooting in a jewelry store, there had been three men on the CCTV footage, but only one caught and sent down. He’d been unwilling to give up his accomplices, even when given a plea deal.

“He’ll tell you who he did it with,” Ernest said firmly.

“Maybe.”

“If I was him I’d tell you.”

“Why?”

Ernest flicked him a glance. “You know…you’re…all scary and everything.”

Javert rolled his eyes and decided to ignore Ernest for the rest of the drive even if he did ask more questions.

They pulled up at the prison shortly afterward and Ernest hopped out. Javert took a moment to breathe before doing the same. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this, far from it. He’d played the scenario over and over in his mind and he felt sick. It wasn’t the robbery turned shooting gone wrong that filled him with ice, but rather the idea that another man might be in that waiting room. Valjean had been sent to this prison, he’d checked, and now he was marching right in. What would Valjean do if they saw each other? He swallowed hard.

“You can come in, but you won’t be allowed in the visiting room.”

“I don’t mind,” Ernest said cheerily. He was eyeing Javert with an indefinable expression that Javert tried his best to ignore.

“You could always wait in the car,” He said, before muttering under his breath. “I’d roll down a window for you.”

“No thanks, that’s what Monsieur Gisquet made me do and it was just boring.”

“It will be just as boring inside.”

“Perhaps.” Ernest followed Javert’s long strides with two small paces of his own. “But it will be inside a prison.”

Javert deposited Ernest in what could only be described as the prison’s waiting room. He stared at his surroundings, enthralled, for a few moments, but eventually pulled out his phone and started playing with that instead. Javert went through security, a metal detector, an x-ray machine, and then a light pat down, nothing dissimilar to how he’d gone through every day as a guard. It was a familiar experience but he still felt unnerved.

He entered the visiting room with an air of confidence, but there were no prisoners there yet. The room was devoid of the telltale orange of prison jumpsuits. He waited until all the visitors had filed in and then heard the distance clanging of a metal door sliding out of place, and the buzzing of a gate, until finally the prisoners had arrived and began filing into the room. Some greeted their visitors warmly, others choked back tears of sadness and anger, others were apathetic. At the back of the lot was a tall man with light hair and high cheekbones, his face wizened beyond his years by prison, and his back hunched into a painful looking curve. He looked more bored than anything else, and he didn’t even look at Javert as he sat opposite him.

Javert carefully laid out the files that had come with the case. Witness statements already gathered, comments from the security teams, the evidence collected from the scene, there wasn’t much. Javert had already set himself up for failure.

“How long have you got left?” Javert asked in lieu of greeting.

“Twenty four before parole.” The man shrugged as if this was nothing. His name was Chagnon, and he’d been in prison for eight years already. Javert knew everything about him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Chagnon had heard his name mentioned a few times too.

“A long time,” Javert remarked.

Chagnon shrugged again, but didn’t say anything else.

“How long would they have given you?”

Chagnon frowned. “What?”

“The plea deal.” Javert ran his finger over the top page of the case file. “How long was it for?”

“Six. But then he died.”

Now it was Javert’s turn to be confused. “Who died?”

“The man I shot.”

“I don’t follow.”

Chagnon sighed and leaned back in his chair, he began to pick at his nails. Javert found him extraordinarily unappealing and wanted the interaction to be over sooner rather than later.

“It was attempted murder, they told me I’d be looking at fifteen, out in ten. Or they could give me six, out in three. But then he died, and it was murder, and they told me I could take the twenty eight in court, or sixteen from them.”

“You didn’t want the sixteen?”

“Sixteen or twenty-eight.” Chagnon shrugged again and moved to picking at his teeth. “What’s the difference?”

“Twelve years.”

“It’s all a lifetime anyway, I respected my partners more than that.”

“They told you they’d make your life in here easier didn’t they? Have a word with their men on the inside to give you a good time, help you out with commissary, that sort of thing.” Chagnon’s avoidance of the question told him it was true. He’d seen that sort of thing before, one man would go down for the whole operation, but his time in prison wouldn’t be as hard as it could have been. It didn’t always go to plan however, often that one man was abandoned inside. Chagnon’s easy manner told Javert that his two partners hadn’t abandoned him, and that he was living a fairly comfortable life inside. He made a note to look at Chagnon’s visitation lists.

“Did you work for them?”

“We all worked for each other.”

Javert was already bored with this. He knew it would go nowhere, and he knew nothing would come of it, he was just out of everyone’s way for a few hours, and everyone could pretend that poor Javert could do something for himself.

He had no interest in this case, and he didn’t think he’d work it out, nor was he going to try very hard. The river had changed him. As the rushing waters scraped across his body and he drowned deeper and deeper into a blackness, the roaring in his ears had informed him that his purpose was meaningless, there was no sense of justice in this world, the government’s regime forbid it, and he was simply following orders, a pawn in their game or order, men were arrested and went down for long stretches and the public could feel safe, what did it matter if an innocent was caught in the net. He didn’t care for much of it any more.

He looked at Chagnon, a man who disgusted him, and imagined him sharing a room with Valjean, sharing his exercise time, sitting with him at meals, talking to him. It wasn’t right. The image was misshapen, Valjean appeared crooked and blurred, and Chagnon encompassed the frame. He shook his head to clear the thought.

“You served some months before then, vandalism.” He was reading from the file. “History of crime then?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that if you graffiti a wall then you’ll grow up to be a murderer.”

Chagnon laughed, loud enough to attract the attention of the nearby tables. Javert ignored him and waited for him to subside. “Juvenile detention, vandalism of several walls and cars.”

“That’s right.”

“Always been much of an artist?”

“Not really.”

Javert sighed. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Nope.” Chagnon sat back and observed the room. “I only came because they promised me extra library time.”

“You read?”

Chagnon snorted. “No one in here reads.”

“Then why would you want more time in the library?”

“There are slots, and mine is always full, if I can hang around a bit longer I’ll get the place to myself, it’s quiet, the chairs are soft and comfy, you can pull one behind a shelf and have a moment.”

“So you want some peace and quiet?”

Chagnon laughed again. “If that’s what it’s called now, then yeah, I guess so.”

Javert had taken in all he wanted. He collected the case file and shoved it back into the card folder, then rose without a parting word to Chagnon.

“Is that it then?”

“Yes, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me.”

Chagnon smiled to himself. This meeting might not have gone well for Javert, but he’d scored something out of it, and it had disrupted his day enough that he’d have missed part of a work shift. Javert didn’t turn back as he walked out.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Valjean picked up a book from a low shelf, not bothering to read its spine, before cracking it open to the first page. He didn’t like to reach for books on the top shelves at it drew attention to his short height, and he wasn’t going to ask for help. There were chairs in some of the aisles, but Valjean knew that they hadn’t been dragged there to reach high books, so he’d rather not clamber on them.

He heard the bell that signified the end of his hour in the library. He closed his eyes for a moment and stood completely still feeling just the weight of the book in his hand the the feel of solid floor beneath his feet. If he concentrated hard he could imagine he was back in his study in Rue Plumet, he was safe and free, and Cosette was in the next room and…

“Inmate!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Sorry,” He said quickly, turning to the fierce guard. “I’m coming.”

The guard had drawn his stick and was approaching Valjean menacingly. Valjean hurried down the aisle to the library exit where the rest of the prisoners were slowly filing out. He caught the eye of another inmate who was casually leaning against the opposite wall, making no move to leave. The man smiled at him and gave him the explanation that Valjean’s frown and eyes had asked for him.

“I get more time.”

“How come?” Valjean was asking because he himself wanted more time in the library, it would be a blessing to have some peace and quiet.

“Cold case witness program. Someone comes and asks you questions about cases from years ago, you get to skip work for an hour, and then they give you extra time.”

“A police officer?”

“Yeah, I guess, wasn’t in uniform though like they usually are.”

Valjean didn’t like the police at all, but maybe it would be worth speaking to one just to get some free time to himself.

“You should think about signing up for it, it’s worth it for the alone time, if you know what I mean.” The man made a lewd gesture. Valjean turned away and tried to force it from his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Javert dictated some notes to Ernest on the drive back and Ernest dutifully wrote them down in a neat script in a small flip note book. It would be nice not to write his own reports, but Javert would rather have more exciting cases including the paperwork.

“He didn’t reveal much then?” Ernest sounded disappointed.

“No.”

“Maybe he acted alone then.”

“Of course he didn’t. He’s admitted that he didn’t, and there’s the footage.”

“Oh right, yeah, of course.” Ernest was silent for a moment. “Maybe it was a trick of the camera.”

Javert sighed and gripped the wheel tighter. “No, he just didn’t tell me.”

“He’ll tell you next time then.”

They passed the journey in silence and Javert let Ernest turn on the radio. The traffic was worse than coming out, but Javert was grateful for the long stretches of road where he could just think to himself. When he arrived back at the station it looked like it was busy for the afternoon, and Javert wished he could casually latch himself onto one of the cases flying across the room. He noticed Chabouillet at the end of the corridor coming his way and wondered if he could duck into a closet without being noticed, but then they made eye contact and he sighed and steeled himself to a conversation.

“Not so bad was it?”

Before Javert could answer Chabouillet had begun steering him towards his office. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chabouillet dismiss Ernest, who ran off to other duties, and then with a hand firmly in the centre of Javert’s back he pushed him towards his desk.

“You’ll have to tell me what you found later, I need you on a case for now.”

“A case?”

“Yes, a case.”

“Really?” Javert was confused.

“There’s someone I need you to question, it’s a civilian, everyone else is busy.”

So Chabouillet wanted him to have a conversation with a member of the public, and he was passing it off as a case, important police work. Well, Javert would humour him.

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in the building.” Chabouillet slipped some glasses out an inside pocket and put them on to browse the papers in front of him. “Someone probably went to make him a cup of tea. He’s a bit put out.”

“What are the facts?”

“You know that nice row of shops down by the Marais?”

Javert nodded though in reality he’d never been. He couldn’t afford the nice things bought in the Marais on his Inspector’s salary.

“Art gallery, it’s been robbed, hundreds and thousands worth of the stuff.”

“And you want me to interview him.”

“Yes, get a coherent statement. I had a look at the stuff he said was missing and I couldn’t stop laughing at it, and I think you’ll do a better job at keeping a straight face.”

“I see.”

“Modern stuff. Little blue boxes and piles of rocks, that sort of thing. Well, the whole lot’s gone. Probably for the best, he was hardly helping society with it, but we have to uphold the law and all that, so see to it please.”

Not only was Javert humiliated in his demotion, but now he was being asked to interview harmless civilians, artists at that. He hated all artists. The government had strict rules about what could and couldn’t be shown in the galleries, and it punished those practicing without a license harshly. Javert had seen his fair share of art in his years and he marveled at the subjects the government chose to endorse, usually modern things without much meaning, harmless squares and circles in primary colours. It was as if the government supported only the most childish endeavors of the painters and sculptors that still chose to work.

He gave Chabouillet the affirmative and then set off towards the interview room. It was almost as grim and stark as the interrogation rooms, the only noticeable difference being the lack of metal loops on the table to which an interviewee might be handcuffed. Javert took the man’s statement with indifference, his face not moving a muscle as he listened to how the artist had been robbed of over a hundred miniature brick walls that were apparently worth twice his yearly salary. He nodded in sympathy, but showed no other emotion, and was glad when he finally escaped the stuffy interview room.

At least there were some real cases in the cold case files, hardened stuff that interested him a good deal more than art theft. He’d never had much time for thieves, he found them tedious at best. Javert’s former office was no longer a solitary space for Javert. His desk had been moved against the wall so that another officer’s desk could be sandwiched in, another effort to keep him from ever being alone. He was beginning to wonder if any of these officers would really do anything to stop him blowing his brains out if it came to it. He sighed and chose to take his case into the main station where the buzz of police business would distract everyone else from looking at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Valjean did a few circuits of the yard at a light jog, then went to lean against a brick wall and watch the other inmates exercise and socialise. There were men here who spent twenty-three hours a day in confined silence and this was their one moment to interact with human faces and touch human hands. He didn’t envy solitary confinement, he’d had his fair share of it, he’d never been one for following rules barked at him by cruel angry voices.

_“24601, you will look at me when I am speaking to you!”_

_Valjean knew it was a stupid protest, but he found a spot on the floor, a dark stain on the concrete, and he stared at it without looking up._

_“24601!”_

_His ears rang with a high-pitched wail and pain sprang up around his neck and head and he found himself jolted to the floor by the force of the blow. He saw the nightstick hovering in his periphery, saw it raise again, and he knew to be stubborn would be his downfall. So he looked up, met the gaze of the young guard who was furious at having his control questioned by this worthless criminal. He stared defiantly into piercing blue eyes, saw the resolve of the guard shake just a little, and a lifetime of anger was welling up inside the man, more anger than Valjean thought he’d ever seen before._

_“A week in solitary for insolence 24601.”_

_None of the other guards used his number so liberally. They called him by insults, vile shameful names, but somehow there was less shame in being called ‘scum’ than a number. At least he was a human, no matter how looked down upon._

_“What do you have to say for yourself 24601?”_

_Valjean realised he was still on his knees and made to stand, but the nightstick was suddenly at his shoulder, pressing down hard, so he stayed still._

_“I won’t do it again.”_

_“You will address me with respect 24601.”_

_Valjean bit the inside of his cheek. “I won’t do it again, sir.”_

_“Better.” The young guard lowered his weapon and looked down at Valjean with a disgusted sneer, his head tilted to one side, regarding Valjean as if he were a repulsive insect he’d just stepped on. “And make that two weeks of solitary.”_

_The guard marched away leaving Valjean to rise to his feet and dust himself off as best he could. No other prisoner had dared intervene at the exchange, but once the guard had rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight he found inmates flocked to his side, and his cellmate had his elbow in a reassuring grip._

_“What were you doing talking back to Javert?”_

_“I didn’t know he was so special,” Valjean replied, looking at the space where the guard had stood over him and mocked him with distaste. “I’ll make sure not to cross his path again.”_

Prison was different now, it had changed vastly since his first stay and he noticed the small things more than the big things. The guards were still cruel, and they shouted, but they didn’t touch him as much as they used to. He was manhandled, but never outright attacked as he had once been. The guards in Toulon were happy to kick the wounded and punch a man while he was down, but here there was much more order to the violence.

Sitting at a metal table bolted to the ground were a group of men, most of them huge masses of muscle and brawn, somewhere standing, crowded round, looking like a hunch of orange vultures. Valjean squinted at them, shielding his eyes from the sun so he could get a better look. There was a conspiratorial air about them, whispers shared behind hands and small nods went round the circle. Valjean saw Gaudin sitting among them, the smallest of them all, positively wiry compared to the thuggish giants next to him. As if sensing being watched he looked up and caught Valjean’s gaze. He gestured to Valjean, and Valjean considered ignoring him, but the moment passed and he slowly wandered to the group.

They had a clear leader, a burly man with close-cropped hair and his neck covered in scars and a vicious tribal sleeve in shades of red and black. He watched Valjean’s approach guardedly and looked to Gaudin for information as he gestured for his followers to stop talking.

“Valjean,” Gaudin supplied in explanation. “My cellmate, the one I was talking to you about.”

The man visibly relaxed and the circle opened to allow Valjean a place in it.

“You on our side?” The man asked, his voice full of grit.

“Which side would that be?” Valjean replied, his defenses up. He didn’t like the look of this and he wanted out already.

“This is Boudier,” Gaudin said. “He’s leading.”

There were murmurs round the circle that Valjean couldn’t quite make out, so he looked to Gaudin for advice, trying to look simultaneously confused and strong. Gaudin leaned in to Valjean and touched his arm. “There’s going to be a riot,” Gaudin said. “Some of us might slip out in the confusion, the rest will negotiate for better terms, maybe you can help us get revenge on a guard or two.”

“I see.” Valjean regarded them all cautiously. He was aware that he was now in posession of information he didn’t want to be responsible with. Now he knew there’d be a riot, and he was invited to take part in it. He couldn’t decline, it would appear suspicious, but he didn’t want a riot. Couldn’t they just postpone it until he’d drifted away peacefully in his sleep?

“You’ve escaped before?” Boudier questioned Valjean. He was a man of few words, most of these words of few syllables, but Valjean saw something more than just brutish strength in his eyes. He was a man in pain, and Valjean could understand that.

“Yes.” Valjean saw no point in lying, he also didn’t think it worth mentioning that he’d had more failed attempts than successes.

“And he’s strong,” Gaudin said quickly. “Very strong.”

Boudier raised an eyebrow, but decided not to question Valjean further. Valjean found himself accepted in this group and sat among them as they discussed riot plans until the yard hour was over and they were herded back into the main prison building.

 

* * *

 

 

Javert flicked through the cold case files with increasing boredom. They might have interested some officer at some point when the case was hot and the chase was in full swing, but now they seemed like poor attempts at crime fiction where the last few pages had been ripped out. There were hundreds of them, and they were all as dull to Javert as the rest. Chabouillet had checked on in him a few times that day, asked him a few questions to get him talking, offered to take him out for a drink later that night, and Javert had fielded it all as best he could. He’d declined the drink, saying he was tired and wanted an early night, and went to the office he now shared to randomly pick a few case files to take home. He took a few from the back that he hadn’t looked through yet and shoved them in his bag before following the rest of the officers out at the end of the day. No one would dream of letting him stay to do overtime which was how he’d spent most of his evenings before June.

“You’ve got someone staying with you at home?”

Javert wondered who Chabouillet thought existed to stay with him, it wasn’t as if he had a multitude of friends he was constantly entertaining. Chabouillet knew he preferred a quiet night alone, but he still lied easily, and told a story about a cousin who was sleeping on his sofa until he sorted his life out.

“You’ll get there soon,” Chabouillet said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll get you back with us in no time.”

Chabouillet had come to visit Javert in hospital, he’d been the only person who did, and at first he hadn’t believed the doctors who told him what had happened. He’d actively fought with Javert as he lay helpless in his hospital bed, insisting that Javert admit it wasn’t true, that he’d slipped, fallen, it must have been an accident. But Javert had told the truth and suddenly Chabouillet had gone silent. It had been awkward and painful, and eventually Chabouillet had muttered something about it not being shameful to seek help, but he’d had trouble making it sound like he meant it.

He took the bus home now, mainly because he didn’t want to ask Chabouillet for the keys to a police issue car, and he hated being around all the people. Once home he went to take a shower, turned the temperature down until he was standing in the stream of freezing cold water, the ice running over his skin and making his heart beat faster, and until he felt something, anything. It never really helped. He wrapped a towel round himself and went to shove something in the microwave before settling on the sofa and unfolding the case files.

Javert assumed that the junior officers just picked at random, and dutifully went to the prison to look like they were doing their job, but didn’t worry about coming back with answers. Javert knew he should just do the same, so after a few moments browsing he reached his hand into the pack and pulled out a single sheet. His eyes scanned it quickly and he swallowed hard at the horrible irony of it. He felt like throwing the piece of paper across the room, almost did, but his fist was clenched around it so tightly. He couldn’t. He couldn’t go and see Valjean, it was absolutely out of the question, he could not and would not. And yet…

It was terribly tempting. Valjean would have to talk to him, he’d be made to come to the visitation room, and then he wouldn’t be able to avoid confronting his demons, facing all that still scratched at his uneasy mind. This could be his closure.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’ll take a few through the vents, the panel is behind corridor C, and it’s guarded, but we can get men through in the confusion. How are the smoke bombs coming along?”

Not for the first time in his life, Valjean found himself in a situation he didn’t want to be in. He was quickly sinking and he’d forgotten to inflate his life jacket, and now he was dropping deeper into this conspiracy that threatened to ruin everything he’d carefully built for himself.

“Good, and the kitchen are on board, they’re going to smuggle out some knifes the night before.”

“Maret is our guard on the inside, he’s Delafose’s son.”

“Lucky for us.”

“He’s getting the guns inside, and after it all kicks off we’ll have some men round the backs, Rochefort will go with Bassot to the west side, and Valjean and Gaudin will cover the east.”

Valjean pricked up when he heard his name. He stopped himself from making any comment. He could act as a temporary lookout for the rioters, he didn’t mind that so much, it was all the weapons smuggling and hiding and creating that he didn’t like. Stored in his bunk were half a dozen sawn down mattress poles and he felt guilty every time he laid his head down to rest.

It would all be ready by friday and they would act during visitation hours, that would ensure maximum confusion, and allow the guards on duty to be more preoccupied with the safety of the visiting civilians than prison security. Valjean didn’t like it, but it was too late to speak up. He’d written to Cosette and asked her not to come up on friday, it was the least he could do, and he wondered if he’d be given a chance to see her again when this was all finished and failed and all the conspirators duly punished.

 

* * *

 

 

Valjean was gathered in the library with the rest of the first onslaught, still not sure if it was too late to voice his concerns about almost every aspect of the plan. He’d passed a restless night and he’d sensed that Gaudin was lying awake too. Neither of them spoke, but they understood the importance of today’s events. Valjean watched the clock. It was five minutes until visitation began and they would wait until quarter past before the first smoke bombs were thrown into the room and the riot would begin.

The door to the library swung open and everyone froze in position, each of them nonchalantly leaning on a shelf with a book in hand, appearing normal and unaffected.

“Valjean?”

Valjean nervously poked his head out from behind the atlas he was buried in and nervously raised a hand. The guard motioned for him to follow and Valjean felt a little relieved at the prospect of being separated from the rioters. He gave Gaudin an apologetic look before following the guard out of the library.

“You have a visitor.”

“No I don’t,” Valjean said instantly. Back in Toulon he would have been punched for a comment like that. As it was the guard gave him a shove to keep him moving down the corridor.

“Yes you do.”

Valjean started to feel sick. He’d told Cosette not to come. He’d just have to tell her about the riot and see that she left straight away, but surely that would appear suspicious, and he’d be rousing the attention of the guards. He didn’t know what to do and his mind was racing as he tried to come up with a plan. He couldn’t let Cosette see that anything was wrong, no, he would have to enter the room smiling as he usually did at the prospect of her visits, let her and the guards see that nothing was amiss. He arranged his face suitably and followed the guard into the visitation room.

 

* * *

 

 

Javert looked at his watch. There was still time to leave, pretend this had never happened, come back to the prison another day with another case and ignore Valjean. But at the same time he knew that he had to face this. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, or if he could strike up the courage to say anything at all, but he knew this was his chance for closure.

The prisoners were beginning to file in, a sea of bright orange among the white walls of the building. He eyed each one in turn until at last he saw Valjean at the back of the lot, hurried in by a disinterested guard.

Never had he seen a man’s face drop so fast. The expression upon entering the visiting room had been almost radiant, happy at the very least, which surprised Javert. In a small way it annoyed him. He couldn’t shake the intense feeling that prison was a place of suffering and despair, and smiling should be discouraged as much as possible. He didn’t wish to judge Valjean’s smile, it had just come naturally, and immediately he felt ashamed. Still, he had come here on duty, and by duty he would stay. Valjean looked as if he had an itch on his shoulder, something compelling him to turn and flee the room, or perhaps Javert was projecting. Either way, Valjean was flanked by a guard that looked almost as strong as any hardened convict, and a firm hand on Valjean’s elbow drew him towards the table, there would be no going against that hand regardless of how much both Valjean and Javert wished it. Valjean kicked back the rickety metal chair with one foot, almost petulant in manner, Javert watched as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position then shuffled closer to the table.

The guard left them with a final warning look directed at Valjean. But Valjean was staring at his hands before him, avoiding all eye-contact. Javert cleared his throat, hoping that words would come by duty alone. They didn’t, and they were left in awkward silence a few moments more. Javert couldn’t stand the silence so he busied himself by taking out the case-file, bare boned as it was, and set it neatly before him. He spent a few more seconds adjusting the paper so that it was perfectly in line with the angles of the small table. Then he cleared his throat again.

“They didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known it was you.”

That explained the smile, brief though it had been. Valjean had been expecting another visitor. Javert wasn’t sure if he cared enough to find out who this visitor was, not least because he couldn’t image the kind of person capable of making Valjean smile like that.

“They would have made you come.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow, but still wasn’t looking at Javert. He stared instead at the callouses on his hands and his bruised knuckles. Javert noticed the faint bruises. He surmised from the bruises that Valjean had been fighting, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about this.

“Why are you here then?”

“Information.”

Valjean’s lips tightened and Javert watched him visibly recoil slightly.

“Why should I tell you anything?” Valjean let out a short sharp breath which could have been a despairing laugh. “What can you do if I refuse to speak? Punish me?” Valjean laughed more plainly this time, though still soft. “What else can you do? You and your society have brought me to my lowest, but I have found my peace.”

Javert couldn’t help it, he pitied Valjean, and a small part of him knew that this system that had caught Valjean in its cruel net wasn’t fair. Valjean had saved his life, and he’d done it twice, and he thought his debt was repaid, but he was slowly realising that he couldn’t prevent his mind twisting in complicated knots when he thought about these debts and sins.

“I’m sorry.”

Valjean looked at him then.

“What for?”

“Everything. All of it.” Javert breathed slowly. “And I mean all of it.”

“It is time to leave me alone now,” Valjean said with a finality.

“I did my best, I didn’t know what else to say at your trial.”

“I thought you were tormenting me.”

“No.” Javert hated how helpless he sounded. “I was trying to save you, in a way, I didn’t know how else I could.”

Valjean frowned, then looked around the room until his eyes slid to the pane of glass that ran the length of one of the shorter walls. He saw through it to the further piece of glass, and beyond that Boudier staring right back at him. He froze.

“Javert, you have to leave.”

“I am trying to make things right.”

God, why did Javert have to choose this moment to repent all his sins? His timing couldn’t have been worse. Valjean tried to make out Boudier’s distorted expression, but he couldn’t work it out. Did Boudier recognise Javert? Did he think Valjean was ratting them all out?

If he could just make Javert leave then it might all be fine. But as he looked at Javert, his expression clouded and severe, he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to tell him to go away.

“You can’t be here right now.”

“Valjean…” Javert’s voice was soft and subdued. “You have tormented me endlessly for years, and you will not let me torment you for an hour. I have thought more in these past few weeks than I have in my entire life, and it is thanks to you that I see you for what you are, what you have always plainly be.”

Valjean squirmed in the metal chair. These were wonderous revelations and he appreciated them immensly and he wished he could engage Javert in these newly found morals, but now was simply not the time.

“Please, Javert, trust me, if you never have before, just do it now, by God just do it now.” Valjean in an impulsive moment reached across the table and grasped hold of Javert’s hands, taking them tightly in his own. Javert looked too shocked to physically respond. Valjean let the gesture hang for a moment before releasing Javert and attempting to look calm. “You have to leave.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask why.”

Javert’s expression changed, slid from its prior calm and resolution into something darker. “What is it? What are you planning?”

“It’s not me, I swear it.” His eyes flicked to the clock. Just six minutes until the smoke bombs would come, it wasn’t enough time, Javert would be caught in the action, he’d be instantly recognised, and then he’d be slaughtered by a pack of eager convicts. Valjean didn’t have time to spare a thought on how perverted justice had become.

“What’s going on?” Javert was looking around him now, his police instincts pricking up. His eyes scanned the pane of glass, then the other prisoners in the room, finally resting on Valjean’s urgent expression. “Something’s about to happen isn’t it? What? You’re going to try and escape?” Valjean’s head shook imperceptibly. “Someone else?” Valjean nodded slightly. “Okay, and you’re involved? No? Yes? I don’t know what that expression means, okay never mind, but it’s going to be violent? And you’re not saying it out loud because…you’re afraid, Valjean, you can say it to me…okay okay stop I understand, you can’t.” Javert glanced round him again.

“The man two tables behind you, he’s in on it, he’s nervous, he isn’t talking to the man he’s with. Is it him who’s making a run for it?”

Valjean made a convincing yawning gesture and took the opportunity to glance behind him. He nodded. “Delafose,” He whispered, lips barely moving. “The guard by the door, Maret, is his son. He’s getting out.”

“And you’re going to help him? I still don’t know what that expression means, but you didn’t know I was going to be here, I saw it on your face, it wasn’t in the plan for you to be in this room with him, which means…something else is happening in the prison at the same time, a diversion.” Javert frowned, thinking hard. “Riot?”

Valjean stared hard and Javert nodded in understanding. “I know this prison, they’re well-trained, it won’t last long.”

Valjean glanced at the clock. Three minutes left.

“Guns,” He said quietly.

“What?” Javert leaned in closer.

Valjean looked around him then put his hand flat on the table and made the shape of a gun with his fingers.

“You’ve managed to sneak guns inside?” Javert looked to Valjean for confirmation then whistled through his teeth. “How long?”

Valjean put up two fingers pressed to the table.

“Two hours?” Valjean looked pained. “Two minutes? Valjean why didn’t you say?”

Valjean glared and was about to throw his hands up, but stopped himself. “You have to leave, now.”

“There isn’t time.”

“You could get right out that door within two minutes, and then you’ll be safe.”

“You expect me to just stand up in the middle of this room and make a run for it? Valjean, don’t be a fool, enough people have seen you in here talking to me, they’d work out that you warned me.”

Valjean was surprised at the selflessness of Javert’s words. The man was thinking of how his actions were going to impact Valjean, and he wasn’t going to save himself if it meant risking Valjean’s life.

Valjean turned his two fingers into a single finger and looked meaningfully at Javert.

“Okay, I get it,” Javert said calmly. “How far is your cell from here?”

“It’s on the southern side, two corridors away, but there’ll be smoke bombs, you won’t be able to see.”

“Good, that will cover us, can you get us there?”

Valjean nodded. “But I’ve been given a job in the eastern wing, they’ll think it’s suspicious if I don’t show up soon.”

Javert let out a short laugh and Valjean reacted in alarm and dismay. “It’s a riot, things will change, no one will notice you’re not in the right place when it gets into the swing of things.” He paused for a moment, watched as the inmate known as Delafose clenched his hands into fists and slid to the very edge of his chair, his knees bending so he looked like a runner at the start of a race. “There were two serious riots during your time at Toulon.”

Valjean was surprised that Javert remembered these details about his initial prison sentence. He hadn’t considered himself important to Javert, but maybe he should have paid more attention. “I was in solitary both times.”

“Were you?” Javert asked this as casually as he could, but he knew that if Valjean had been in solitary then it was likely Javert had put him there. It was his known punishment, his favourite way of dealing with insurgence.

“Yeah.” Valjean swallowed dryly. “I missed out on all the fun.”

“Well what a day to start.” Javert noticed a shift behind the pane of glass and two men in orange emerged near the guarded entrance to the visitation room, their hands closed together in protective fists as they concealed their bombs. “Any second now.”

Valjean spun in his seat without making a pretense of making it seem natural. He gritted his teeth. “It’s not too late.”

“It is.” Javert neatly packed away the case file in front of him and slid it surreptitiously onto the floor beneath the table. “Just get me to your cell, there’ll be chaos and confusion, no one will really look at me properly for a while after it starts, we’re going to use that to our advantage.”

“Why are you so calm?”

 _Because I don’t care about dying._ “Because I’ve been through riots before, I know how they start and I know how they end, we’re going to make ourselves a nice safe hideout and ride it out for a few days until it’s all over. Trust me.”

He reached across the table and took Valjean’s wrist in his hand and pulled him slightly to the right of the table, out of the way as one of the prisoners carrying the bombs rolled it down the left aisle.

“Ready?”

The bomb exploded. The noise was horrendous and Valjean was crippled by the ringing in his ears, but Javert was wrenching him down to the floor by his wrist and a hand on the back of his neck was shoving his face down. His eyes watered and he looked up at Javert whose face was serious and concentrating, his hand clasped over his mouth and nose.

“It’s easier to breathe down here.”

Valjean nodded and used his spare hand to cover his face. Javert stared at him urgently and Valjean got the hint. He started to guide Javert towards the visitation room entrance, the smoke instantly thick and blinding. The noise was terrible, there were screams, grunts, shouts, scraping tables, fists crunching into jaws, and then Valjean heard the first of what were to be many gunshots and he blanched. The smoke was only just beginning to seep into the corridor and as soon as they had clear air in from of them Javert got to his feet and dragged Valjean with him.

“This way?”

Valjean nodded and Javert set off down the corridor at a run, pulling Valjean helplessly with him. Javert’s grip was tight and immovable and Valjean tried not to pay too much attention to the startling feel of skin on skin, a sensation he hadn’t felt for what must be weeks now.

There were prisoners around them, smashing any objects they could, some of them already fighting with each other, none of them paid much attention to Valjean and Javert rushing past them.

“Make a left here.”

Javert overshot the turning slightly and Valjean winced as Javert’s unstoppable grip tensed round his wrist in a painful burn. Javert didn’t even notice, but kept dragging Valjean down the corridor. Valjean had to run very fast to keep up with Javert’s absurdly long legs. As they were approaching his cell Valjean almost called out Javert’s name to stop him, but bit his tongue just in time, instead he tugged back on his own wrist.

“It’s this one.”

As Javert had expected, the rioters had already accessed the lock override, so all the cell doors were pushed wide open. They could be closed manually, from the inside too, but not locked unless the electrical mainframe was in play. Javert had witnessed several riots and he knew how they usually went down, and more often than not they played themselves out over the course of a few days. Finally letting go of Valjean’s wrist he pushed him into the cell, then quickly glanced left and right down the corridor before following him in.

“Help me with the beds,” He said, pulling the mattress and pillow from the frame and then pushing the bed towards the cell door. Valjean did the same with the other bed, and together they maneuvered them onto the sides as a makeshift barricade.

“What do you have in here?” Javert asked breathlessly. “Supplies wise.”

Valjean rummaged through his shelves, then searched Gaudins. He came away with their two bottles of water, both half empty, and two chocolate bars from Gaudin’s side.

“That won’t last us a few days, how far are we from the kitchen?”

“It’s the other side of the prison.”

Javert grimaced. “And the commissary?”

“Closer, still not close though.”

“We’ll worry about it later.”

Valjean moved back to Gaudin’s shelves and removed his spare uniform before tossing it to Javert. “These will fit you better than mine, he’s tall.”

Javert looked at the orange material in his hands before comprehending. He looked around as if searching for a suitable place to change. Valjean licked his lips nervously and looked apologetic. “I’ll turn the other way.”

“Thanks,” Javert muttered. He quickly shirked his own clothes and put on the prison issue uniform. He was grateful for the lack of mirror in the cell. He hid his clothes in the pile of sheets that they’d both dumped into the corner before sitting against the wall and drawing his knees up to his chest.

“You should go and make contact with your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” Valjean said quickly. “But you’re right. What should I say?”

“Look excited, it’s a riot, find out where they’re gathering supplies, that’s if they’ve worked out to gather them at all. It sounds like it’s been well-planned so I expect someone will know about rationing.”

“What about you? You won’t be safe here alone.”

Javert smiled to himself. “I’m more than equipped to deal with prison.” He gestured to one of the sawed-off bed poles that had fallen from underneath the mattress when they’d moved Valjean’s bed. “And I’ve got these handy weapons you made earlier.”

“I didn’t make them, I’m just storing them.”

“Then you should take some, that will be a good excuse to search out the main players.”

Valjean nodded, collecting four of the poles and leaving one with Javert.

Valjean was gone a long time, not that Javert had a means to time it. Several men had passed by the cell, but the ones that had looked in hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. He growled at them with his head cast down and they got the message that they weren’t wanted. He’d held onto the pole protectively and that had stopped too many strangers inviting themselves in for a look at what they could steal. Valjean returned breathlessly with a bag slung under his arm. He clambered over the beds and dumped it on the floor in the middle of the cell. “It’s all I could get.”

Javert was already rummaging through it. There were packs of dry food and bottles of water, plus a few toiletries that Valjean had managed to find.

“It was a free-for-all in the kitchen, they haven’t worked out how to ration yet.”

“Then this will be over sooner than I thought.”

“I hope so.” Valjean sat down on the floor beside Javert and leaned back against the wall. “What will happen when it’s over?”

“The leaders will have their sentences extended, everyone else involved will lose privileges for a while, and then it all goes back to normal.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I’ll vouch for you.”

Valjean sighed and explored the rough stone wall with his fingers for a few moments. “They won’t like it if I’m not being punished with them.”

“They won’t know if you don’t tell them, but I’ll make sure you don’t lose your visitation rights.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because I could see there was someone you were expecting, someone who isn’t me, and you wanted to see them. You looked…happy.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Yeah.” Javert sniffed. “And I’m not often nice.”

“I know.”

Javert tilted his head back against the wall then turned to look at Valjean. “I meant it, when I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah.” Valjean stared back. “I could see you did.”

There was a pause as Javert continue to look at Valjean with his brow slightly furrowed. Valjean turned away to face the wall opposite, for a moment he felt fine, but then an overwhelming sense of despair collapsed over him and he placed his head in his hands. “I wish I could forgive you,” He said quietly. “I can see you need it, but I’m sorry Javert, I just don’t know how.”

Javert nodded. He looked at Valjean with his face buried in his hands, the gentle curve of his back, the way it rose and fell with his stunted breaths. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t. It isn’t okay.”

Javert was about to reply when he heard a clanging sound against the bars of the cell and he whipped round to face it, not thinking about hiding his face. A man he did not recognise was leaning against the bars, a small hand gun in his hands, and it was this that he’d banged against the bars to get their attention.

“Valjean?”

Valjean looked up, his eyes were red and his cheeks appeared hollow and sickly. “Gaudin,” He breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s happening?”

“Boudier is gathering everyone, he wants to organise. Who’s this?”

Valjean opened his mouth, then closed it again, he looked to Javert silently appealing for help, but Javert just stared blankly back at him. After a painful silence Valjean finally snatched a name from the air.

“Fauchlevent,” He said, a little too forcefully. “This is…this is Fauchlevent.”

“I haven’t seen you before.” Gaudin squinted and looked Javert up and down. Javert gave Valjean a suffering glare, but otherwise stayed silent.

“Got him out of solitary, just now, he’s been there a long time.” There was another pause.

“Serial killer,” Javert helpfully supplied.

“Yes!” Valjean exclaimed, far too enthusiastically. “He’s a serial killer, they don’t let him out much.”

Javert turned to Gaudin who looked between them for a few moments before shrugging. “He wants to do it in the yard so the media cameras can see. They’ve already got some helicopters organised, and Boudier wants it to look like we know what we’re doing.”

“And what are we doing?” Valjean asked.

Gaudin laughed. “Who knows? They’ve already killed one of the pigs, and they’ve got hostages, it’s a mess though Valjean, a real mess.”

“Bitten off more than they can chew,” Javert muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s always the same.”

“What’s he talking about?” Gaudin addressed the question to Valjean. Valjean shrugged and offered no explanation, instead he rose and moved to Gaudin to clap him on the shoulder in what he thought was a companionable gesture.

“Give us a moment,” He said, forcing his voice to not sound strained. “We’ll be along in a minute.”

Gaudin looked between them and sniffed. “Sure, but I’m not covering for you for long.”

He twirled the gun in his hand in a gesture of showmanship and gave Valjean a grin and Javert a suspicious glare, before he ducked back from the bed barricade. They listened as his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.

“What was that about?” Javert asked.

“He’s my roomate, cellmate, well, a friend I guess.”

“A friend?”

“He’s better than most of them.”

“He knows how to use that gun.” Javert looked at the empty space where Gaudin used to stand. A riot was a bad business for a prison, but not unmanageable. Guns involved made things worse, but it wasn’t completely unsalvageable, guns had limited bullets after all, and he imagined the prisoners would already have been trigger happy. “They’ve already killed a guard,” He said quietly. “And they have more hostages. I bet they need more medical attention than they’re getting.”

Valjean looked helpless. “We could negotiate, give up the hostages for some supplies, or something, I don’t know, I’m not used to this.”

“There won’t be much negotiating. General policy is not to negotiate at all, even if there are innocent lives involved, the plan is to just wait it out until the riot runs out of steam.”

“Those men might die before then.”

Javert looked at Valjean. “Are you going to try to stop them?” It wasn’t a challenge or an expectation, it was a genuine question. Javert had no idea how much hand Valjean had in the riot, but he was willing to guess it wasn’t anything substantial, but he wouldn’t expect Valjean to risk his life to save the lives of the unnamed guards.

“If I can.”

“Do you think he recognised me?”

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

Valjean thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. He was arrested three years ago, but he transferred from a prison in the south, he’d only know you by name.”

“And you sorted that problem.” Javert snorted. “Best you could come up with?”

“I didn’t see you helping.” Valjean paced around the cell a few times before coming back to sit next to Javert against the wall. “I panicked.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Valjean winced. Javert allowed himself a moment to be amused by Valjean’s delicacy, then he shook his head.

 

* * *

 

 

“I arrested half these men,” he said quietly.

“Then that’s a whole half that you didn’t, which is plenty who won’t recognise you.”

“That’s the half that I’ve been meeting with on a daily basis as part of this stupid new job.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Valjean patted Javert’s arm awkwardly, a touch that Javert wanted to recoil from, but he stayed stock still and stared resolutely at the cell wall. “All it takes is one,” He said as Valjean withdrew his hand.

“It doesn’t help that you’re so…”

“What?”

“Tall, and distinguishable.” Valjean thought for a moment, then he reached out a hand nervously as if he might touch Javert’s face. He stopped short of it by a few inches. “What about this?”

Javert frowned. “My face? Well, yeah, obviously that’s the problem.”

“No, no, what about…” Again Valjean inched his hand forward as if he might shyly stroke Javert’s beard, and then Javert understood. He swallowed and nodded slowly.

“That might help.”

“My shaving kit is on the shelf.”

Javert was grateful for a chance to move away from Valjean for a few moments at least. It didn’t take long to find the cheap plastic razor and nondescript shaving cream on the shelf, there wasn’t much else there except a few other toiletries and two books.

“How close is the bathroom?”

Valjean licked his lips nervously. “There’s one at the end of this hall, I’ll cover you.”

Valjean single-handedly pulled back the beds to create a small gap and Javert slid through first. He kept his head ducked, but Valjean was right, he was taller than most men and it made it hard to hide. Valjean led the way, standing in front of Javert, like some kind of shield, but Valjean was seemed so small and fragile in comparison. Javert knew that appearances were deceptive and Valjean hid strong muscles underneath his prison uniform. The bathroom had no door which Javert was expecting, but the stalls were hidden by a wall at a right angle from the entrance, so in order to discover Javert inside an inmate would have to circle round it. Valjean would have plenty of time to alert him from where he set up as a lookout outside.

“I’ll try to be quick,” Javert said. He didn’t have much choice, and Valjean was already looking nervous at the prospect of standing out in the open otherwise unprotected. He watched as Javert disappeared behind the wall and then turned to look down the corridor. It was empty, most of the prisoners had convened in the cafeteria or the yard where they could wave and taunt at the media helicopters which circled overhead. Valjean wasn’t foolish enough to think that they’d all be there, or that dangerous groups hadn’t evolved and broken off from the pack to do the rounds of the rest of the prison. He’d watched as they’d all collected as one mentality to lay into the guard, and cruel as the man may have been he didn’t deserve that end. He shuddered to think what they would do to Javert.

This thought clouded his mind and he jumped suddenly as a hand rested heavy on his shoulder. He turned swiftly to face Javert, still very much bearded. Javert’s face was grave.

“I can’t.”

“Oh.” Valjean glanced quickly over his shoulder, then ran his eyes over Javert with a frown. “It’s okay, I’ll keep you hidden and I’ll—”

“No.” Javert was shaking his head. “I want to, but I can’t. It’s the mirrors, they’ve all been smashed.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow. “Must have been during the first rush. There isn’t much in this prison to smash up.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll work something out, but let’s get out of the open.”

Javert nodded and they hurried back down the corridor of cells until they found Valjean’s again. Valjean pulled the beds across and tied a sheet between the bars in lieu of a lock. It wouldn’t hold, but it would alert Valjean and give him enough time to…what? Hide Javert? Where in this bare and tiny cell was there space to hide a large man? When he’d finished and turned round he found Javert sitting cross-legged on the ground, the shaving kit neatly placed on the floor beside him, his eyes closed in pained thought. He sat down next to him, glanced at the barrier for a moment, then picked up the razor and shifted it in his hand.

“I’ve thought of something,” He said eventually.

Javert opened his eyes and leaned back slightly upon finding Valjean so close to him. He struggled with the small space in which he found himself, especially as Valjean was practically touching him every time he tried to budge an inch.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Valjean picked up the shaving cream and looked up at Javert, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Javert’s eyes traveled from Valjean’s expression to the implements in his hands and then back again. He swallowed and let out the breath he had been holding.

“I understand.”

“I have your permission?”

Javert frowned. “Of course.”

Valjean was delicate as he applied the shaving cream, and Javert tried his best to stare nonchalantly at he ceiling as if nothing at all untoward were happening. Valjean’s hands were so gentle, almost shy, his fingertips warm, but still they sent shivers down Javert’s neck straight into his chest where his heart throbbed at the light touches.

“I’m too old for this,” He muttered.

“To be shaved by someone else?”

Put like that, so plainly, and with the twinge of amusement in Valjean’s voice, it was so mundane, as if they were some old couple, arguing and sharing a moment of joy. Javert felt himself flush and suddenly he didn’t feel too old, but far too young, like a teenager that had just lost control.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Javert watched at close-range as Valjean wielding the razor. It was small, plasticky, but Valjean could still take this moment to slit his throat if he wanted. Javert wondered what had changed, his thoughts and feelings had dissolved in the current of the Seine and now he was a fragile empty shell, filling up with new thoughts and new feelings, disturbing and intimate. He had begun to feel too strongly, and he didn’t like it, it made him feel vulnerable.

Valjean swiped the razor over his jaw and Javert looked down for a moment, caught his eye. Valjean blinked at the sudden eye contact and looked away, almost bashfully, his teeth playing with his bottom lip as he swiped the razor again.

“Stop enjoying yourself,” Javert said, his voice gruff. He didn’t like handing over his vulnerability, and he felt cautious as hell, fight or flight fully engaged.

“I’ll stop,” Valjean said lightly. “If you do too.”

Javert humphed and leaned back against the wall, avoiding eye contact once again.

“The angle’s awkward,” Valjean said. And as he finished the words he shifted so that he was leaning closer still to Javert’s face, so close that Javert could feel Valjean’s breath on his neck. “If I hurt you I promise I didn’t do it deliberately.”

“Sure.”

But Javert believed him, and he found himself almost relaxing at the soothing motions of Valjean’s practiced hands. Valjean drew the razor along Javert’s jaw and chin and cheeks, until there wasn’t even stubble left, and Javert’s face was clean and smooth. He passed Javert he corner of a bed sheet and allowed Javert to wipe himself before he drew back on his haunches and surveyed his handiwork.

“Is it okay?”

Valjean tilted his head to one side. “You definitely look different.”

“Unrecognisable?”

“I’d have to look at you twice, for sure. I think you’ll get away with it.”

Javert ran an exploratory hand over his newly shaved face. He’d had a beard nearly his whole adult life. Suddenly he felt naked and bare, even more vulnerable, he liked having shields to hide behind.

“I’ve never seen you without a beard,” Valjean remarked as he cleaned the razor and set it back on the shelf

“Yeah, I’ve always had one.”

“It was dark in Toulon, almost black, so was your hair.” There was a brief pause. “Which was odd, because you had light eyes.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.” More silence and Javert felt the need to press this point further, but Valjean continued unprompted. “They still are I guess, blue.”

“I think they’re from my father,” Javert said quietly. “He didn’t leave me much else.”

Valjean knew the story of Javert’s father and his birth. Javert had screamed a brief version of the story at him. He’d been kneeling and Javert had been pointing a gun at him, and he was gripping the side of the bed where a woman had just died, but Javert had seemed not to notice this detail and instead was shouting at him in an unprecedented rage. Valjean looked at Javert now. God, he’d changed, and it was all so strange and unnerving.

“We should go to that meeting. They’ll come look for us if we don’t.”

Javert nodded. Valjean went to rummage through his things and found a grey sweatshirt, it had his prison number on the back and was his size, but it might make Javert less noticeable than if he marched into the centre of the pack dressed in lurid orange.

“Stay behind me.”

“They’ll see over you, and anyway, what will be will be.”

“Not if I can help it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The yard was packed to the brim with hundreds of men dressed in orange, sweat covered, blood spattered, all furious, they turned their attention to Boudier who was standing on one of the bolted tables wielding a gun. He waved his weapon maniacally above his head and roared at the crowd who responded with roars of their own. Javert and Valjean hung back by the edge and Valjean slowly led the way towards the main group of conspirators who gathered close to Boudier.

“I’ll speak to them, stay here.”

“By myself?”

“Make a friend if you want.”

Before Javert could protest Valjean had disappeared into the crowd and Javert was left alone. He ran his hand nervously over his recently shaved face and frowned at the angry mob. It couldn’t last, he told himself, it would be over before it had truly begun. He pulled the sleeves of the sweatshirt over his hands and tugged at the collar, but there was no hiding his face. To make up for this he ducked his head and put a hand over his eyes as if shielding them from the sun. He tried to make himself look natural.

Valjean returned to him sooner than he’d dared to have hoped and he had to stop himself from falling upon him. It was a strange sense of feeling alone among a rowdy crowd, and Valjean’s was the only friendly face among them.

“Well?”

“They’ve killed another guard.”

Javert stole a glance at Boudier. He looked like a lion escaped from a cage at the zoo, roaring wildly and clawing desperately at the air.

“And yeah,” Valjean continued. “It was him.”

“No kidding.” He looked down at Valjean and noticed that he was now holding something in his hand, loose and limp as if it burned his skin, tucked slightly behind his thigh. “What’s that?”

Valjean produced the gun, flat on his palm. He looked so uncomfortable holding it that Javert felt compelled to take it from him.

“You can have it,” Valjean said.

“Not here, it will look suspicious, give it to me later.”

“We have to get you out.”

“Valjean!” They both snapped their head to the cry. It was more of a mighty roar, coming from Boudier’s mouth himself. “Come up here Valjean, bring your friend.”

“Fuck,” Javert hissed. “What do we do?”

“We do as he says.”

“I’m going to die,” Javert said, but he sounded deathly calm.

“No, you’re not. I’ll fight them all if I have to.”

“Then we’ll both die.” Javert gave Valjean a wry smile. “Hold tight to that gun Valjean.”

He gritted his teeth and led Valjean through the crowd towards the metal table and stared up at Boudier. He had to shield his eyes, for good reason this time, as Boudier cut a sharp silhouette in front of the hot burning sun.

“How many?” Boudier grunted down at him.

“What?”

“How many did you kill?”

Valjean stood beside Javert, comprehending the question before he did. “Seventy,” He said firmly.

Boudier whistled, impressed, while Javert cast Valjean a disapproving look.

“Men or women?”

“A bit of both,” Javert said casually. “Mostly men.” There was a pause and he noticed the intense stares of those around him. Someone was bound to recognise him, any moment now, and then they’d descend upon him. He’d be crushed before he could say his final words.

“Good for you.” Boudier scratched his nose with the butt of his gun. “You know how shit solitary is then?”

“Yeah,” Javert found he’d grown so used to lying recently. “It’s…it’s the worst.”

Boudier made a sound in agreement. “We’re doing something about it.”

“I can see that.”

“We need someone like you to—”

“He’s a cop.”

 _Fuck_. Well, it had been a nice run. A short run, shorter than Javert had anticipated, but not too bad he supposed. He ran a hand over his face again. The shaving had been a waste of time, he thought, but then he remembered Valjean’s soft gentle hands on his face, and he decided it had not been a waste of time.

There was instant activity around him. A hand gripped his hair and shoved him to the floor, and then there were more hands pinning him down, tugging at his wrists until he felt them click into handcuffs that must have been pilfered off some poor guard, the metal was pressed down tight pinching into his skin.

He turned to where the voice in the crowd had spoken and saw that the men around him had parted. Chagnon, and now Javert truly saw just how ugly the man was, was standing in the middle of the clearing picking at his nails. “He’s the one that comes for the cold case program,” He said in his smug whiny voice. He waved an arm at some men in his general vicinity. “Ask anyone in it and they’ll tell you. Nice disguise though.”

Javert could sense Valjean tensing above him, and he felt his fear as if it were his own. Boudier looked confused, his brain needed a few moments to catch up with what was being presented to him, and Javert wondered if he should try and make a run for it. At least he could shield Valjean for a bit from the barrage, but then he remembered the gun that Boudier was still waving in the air.

To Javert’s surprise Boudier didn’t use the opportunity to shoot him in the face, but instead turned to Valjean. “You knew?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on Valjean? I’m listening.”

Valjean hesitated for a moment then fixed his hand firmly around the gun he held, and raised it so it was trained at Boudier. “You won’t touch him.”

Boudier laughed. “What is this? The fuck are you doing?”

“He’s mine.” Valjean was running on adrenaline, making it up as he went along, and he knew his plan wouldn’t work, there was such a slim chance, but he was going to try. “Yeah, I knew he was a cop, but here’s the thing…”

He trailed off, wondering what the thing really was. Javert stared at him and wondered too.

“He’s…he’s my cop.”

Javert didn’t understand what Valjean was saying anymore than anyone else did, including Valjean. Javert saw that Valjean’s hand was shaking as he tried to hold the gun steady.

“He’s the one that arrested me, gave me hell, and I want my revenge.”

“Then shoot him,” Boudier said, still vaguely amused. “He’s right there, put a bullet in his brain, I won’t stop you.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to do that, I’m definitely going to put a bullet in his…yeah, but first…”

Boudier raised an eyebrow. Valjean could see Gaudin hovering behind Boudier, and he could tell that Gaudin had worked it out. Now he just needed to convince a hundred more people.

“If I’d handed him over, if you knew he was a cop, then you’d kill him.”

“Yeah,” Boudier agreed. “Which is what’s good for him.”

“Well, two things. First, I want to be the one who kills him, not you.”

“Go ahead then.”

“But second, and this is why you can’t kill him now, is that…I want him.”

“Okay…but what does that mean Valjean?”

Valjean looked around Boudier at his close henchmen. Rochefort and Bassot, men he’d conspired with, men who trusted him, and he saw their smirks. He saw that Boudier still had not caught up, but slowly he heard muffled laughter around him as the men in the yard understood his words, and suddenly Boudier’s brow cleared. Then he looked disgusted. “You fucking bastard Valjean.” Valjean didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. “You want to do it here?”

“No! I mean, no it’s too…cold, I’ll do it in my cell, and then when I’m done, I’m going to fucking kill him. And I’ll drag his body out here myself so you can all see.”

Javert was amazed at the strength and conviction in Valjean’s voice. For half a moment he almost believed that this was Valjean’s true plan after all. Then he realised that he should look a bit concerned so that Valjean’s tale would be believable to everyone else.

He could feel a foot pressing into the back of his neck, keeping his face pressed to the cold concrete floor. He could feel bruises already flaring up around his body and his wrists were sore at the pinch of the handcuffs. Valjean began shoving the men that held him down away from him, until finally he yanked him to his feet. Valjean shoved Javert in front of him and put the gun into the small of his back. “Go on!” He shouted. “Walk!”

Javert appreciated the work Valjean was putting into the act, but he knew that Valjean was simply buying him more time. Maybe he could convince Valjean to kill him quietly before Boudier had a chance. Javert allowed Valjean to push him with the gun until they’d reached the corridor, away from the confused prying eyes, and Valjean stood beside him to walk the rest of the way.

“Sorry.”

“What for? You just saved my life.” For a third time. Javert sighed and turned to witness Valjean’s nervous expression.

“I don’t know what to do now. What if they send someone to check?”

“To check what?”

“You know…to check if we’re…”

“Fucking?”

Javert saw Valjean blush crimson. Valjean helped Javert climb past the bed barricade and into his cell before fiddling with the handcuffs behind his back and releasing them.

“Sorry, I should have done that earlier.”

Javert shrugged. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Are you going to take me as your revenge?”

Valjean blanched. “Did you think I meant it?” His voice was twinged with hurt and Javert almost felt guilty.

“Of course not, but they did which is the important thing.” Would it be so bad, Javert thought, to be taken by Valjean in this tiny prison cell. No, he concluded, it wouldn’t be bad at all.

He turned to Valjean and put out an exploratory hand to touch his shoulder, and then he let gravity guide it down his arm until he could press his hand gently into Valjean’s. “It’s doomsday and the world is going to end tomorrow, you have one day left, what do you do?”

Valjean frowned. “We probably don’t even have a day.”

Javert rolled his eyes. “It’s an expression, just a question you ask people, for fun, you know, everyone has an answer for what they’d do if this was their last day on earth.”

Javert guided Valjean’s hand up to his face and kissed the inside of his wrist at the pulse point with a reverent softness. He reached for Valjean’s other hand and did the same to that too. He was acting on impulse, he felt light-headed, a complete fool, but he couldn’t stop it now. “Most people have the same answer.”

“Which is?” Valjean was breathless and tense, but Javert’s soft touches were slowly causing him to melt inward.

“Most people want to fuck.”

“They do?”

Javert glanced at Valjean’s flushed face. Somewhere along the line he’d closed his eyes and his expression was now delicate and wistful, his lips slightly parted as he breathed slow and deep. Javert bridged the gap between them and reached down to take Valjean’s chin in his fingertips. He brushed his thumb against Valjean’s cheek and tilted his face up until he could kiss him on the lips. His heart was thumping in his chest, louder than it ever had before, but somehow he felt carried along in his progress, and it felt like the right thing to do. He was worried that Valjean wouldn’t kiss him back, but after a few seconds of stillness Valjean hummed slightly and leaned into the kiss, returning it with the reverence with which Javert had bestowed it.

“This is wrong,” He murmured as they broke apart. “Dangerous.”

“Yeah, dangerous is the right word.”

He kissed Valjean’s temple, then moved down to kiss his neck, planted a row of kiss along his jaw, felt Valjean’s vein throbbing intensely against his lips. Valjean’s hands were twirling through his hair and Javert found he loved the feel of them, small and soft and ever so gentle, running like little electric wires across his skin.

Javert broke apart and relished in the little whimper that Valjean let out. He was looking for one of the mattresses. He dragged it away from their barricade and set it out on the floor, pausing to find a pillow. Valjean had sunk to his knees readily when Javert had lost contact with him, and now he crawled willingly to the mattress to lay on it expectantly. How did they both know what to do in this strange situation? Javert was grateful that it felt natural, more natural than anything had come to him for a long time, and it felt right. It was as if Valjean was offering the forgiveness that he’d struggled to give earlier.

Javert pulled the illfitting prison uniform from his body and watched as Valjean did the same. He was hungry now, desperate, and he’d lost all the misgivings he’d felt previously.

Javert took hold of Valjean’s ankles and pushed his legs back, watching as Valjean instinctively arched his back and tilted his hips. Javert rested Valjean’s ankles on his own shoulders and with one hand under Valjean’s knee he leaned forward. “Do you have anything?” He asked suddenly. Valjean looked quizzically up at him, appearing as if in a daze.

“To make it less painful,” Javert said to clarify. Valjean waved wordlessly towards the shelf and Javert ransacked it as a desperate man until he found some lotion that would just about be suitable. He coated his fingers then turned back to Valjean who was positioned and ready. Javert gently tickled Valjean’s entrance with the top of his finger and Valjean gasped at the light touch. Javert was acting on instinct, and he waited for a few moments before pushing two fingers as far as they would go, and then began scissoring them, readying Valjean for something much larger. His own cock was already erect, had been for minutes, even as he was reverently kissing Valjean’s wrists with all the purity in the world.

He removed his fingers and lined up his cock, giving Valjean a warning glance before pushing in. Valjean cried out, the friction intense, and there was little release. Javert could tell this was something Valjean wasn’t used to, so he was slow and careful, but Valjean’s brow still creased in pain.

“Are you al right?”

“Yes!” Valjean gasped. “It’s a good pain, just keep going.”

Javert hesitated for just a moment before thrusting with more force, gripping tighter to Valjean’s ankles, pushing his legs apart with forceful hands. Valjean was tilting his hips, letting each thrust land in a place that made him yelp and cry out in what Javert hoped was pleasure, but it was hard to tell.

Javert’s eyes darted over Valjean’s body beneath him, and he took in every dip and curve of his skin, every line of muscle and bone, the crinkles beside his eyes, the protruding collar bone, the parted lips, the creased brow, the closed eyes and delicate eyelids framed with long thick lashes, the way his skin lightened and darkened as it disappeared in the curves of his thighs and hips.

Javert placed firm hands on Valjean’s waist and flipped them until he was on his back and Valjean was on top of him, his knees falling naturally to either side of Javert’s hips. Javert was still controlling the movements, every thrust was his, and the motion was unbearably pleasurably, unbearably painful. Valjean braced his palms against Javert’s chest, his fingers naturally curling.

He wanted Valjean to look at him. He pressed a palm to Valjean’s cheek, seeming to rouse something in him, and Valjean’s eyes blinked and fluttered open. He was breathless, but smiling, and it was at this moment that Javert rocked Valjean’s hips hard into his own, and felt himself press deep inside him, and suddenly he was coming and it was the best damn orgasm he’d had in his life. He rode it out, and then reached for Valjean’s own cock, gripping him tightly, stroking him to his own release, and then Valjean was coming onto his stomach, his eyes closed again and his mouth parted, and God such delicious whimpers escaping in breathless abandon for those full lips.

Valjean collapsed onto Javert and Javert held him for a moment, just like that, one on top of the other, until finally shifting Valjean to his side so that they were spooning, Valjean curled up in front of him and Javert’s hand firmly round his waist.

“Fuck,” Javert whispered softly. Valjean shivered as Javert’s breath swept across the back of his neck.

“Yeah, same,” Valjean murmured.

“They’ll come looking for us eventually.”

“Let them.” Valjean was closed to the world, feeling safe in Javert’s presence which was a new and odd, but not unwelcome, sensation.

“I’m not letting you go down with me. You have to go along with them.”

“And watch them kill you?”

“If it comes to it.”

Valjean’s breathing slowed further and Javert held him tighter. This couldn’t last. It wasn’t fair, but that was the way of things, and it had been for so long.

“I’ve saved your life three times now.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“And you’ve been ungrateful every time.”

Javert was floored at this. He didn’t know what to say. Luckily for him, Valjean simply kept speaking.

“If I let you die today, or tomorrow, or the next day, it will all have been a waste. Do you see?”

“Lots of things are a waste.”

“But not your life Javert, not that.”

Javert bit his tongue and kissed the back of Valjean’s neck, and then watched as Valjean curled up further into his embrace. They’d come looking for them soon, and this couldn’t be the sight they found, but maybe it would do for now.

“I’ll forgive you Javert, but on one condition.” Javert held his breath. “You need to live for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was fate that brought us together at the barricade, and I saved your life because it was the right thing to do. And then again at the river, our paths crossed just in time, and here, today, you came visiting at just the right moment for me to save you. It means something. God wants you to live. God wants me to save you. So you have to live, there’s no two ways about it.”

Javert didn’t answer, but he held Valjean tighter than he had before, and he thought long and hard about forgiveness.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_2 months later_

 

“You came!”

“Of course I came,” Javert said with a grumble. “It’s our time.”

“How are you?”

“The same as last week pretty much.”

Valjean cupped his chin in his hands and leaned on the visitation table and gazed at Javert as if he were the brightest jewel in the word.

“You’re seeing someone? A counselor?”

“Yes,” Javert told the truth. Everyone had been pushing him to, so he thought he might as well try a session, and it hadn’t been too bad. They’d focused on the trauma of being caught up in a prison riot and then captured and then released and then captured again, and then he’d had to endure several rounds of beatings as the prisoners tormented him, and then he’d had a vague understanding of some negotiations, which confused him at first, because they were told to never negotiate under any circumstance.

But apparently M. Gisquet himself, along with a very important entourage naming no Secretaires, had shown up at the prison gates. Then all protocols were thrown to the wind as Gisquet himself wielded a megaphone, and then marched right into the prison to negotiate directly on some neutral ground. His courage had been applauded by the media and the public and his approval rating had sky rocketed and Javert had found himself bundled out of the prison in exchange for a large pallet of supplies. Gisquet had stared at him until it was obvious he was still breathing and then marched away from the prison without a backwards glance. Javert had been too dazed, too injured and concussed, to fully understand what had happened next. He vaguely recollected being put in the back of an ambulance, and he was certain Chabouillet had been there, and it might have been him or someone else who told him he looked dreadful without a beard.

He’d vouched for Valjean, a statement which confused everyone, but he’d weaseled immunity for him after calling in some favours, and Valjean had been transferred to a low security prison where nobody knew who he was. Javert had been visiting him there once a week ever since, bringing him news of his own case, and now there were lawyers and other important people interested in the man who’d risked his life to save a policeman against all odds, and Javert reckoned Valjean’s chances of reducing his sentence to something fair and manageable were high.

“I’m fine actually.”

“Really?”

Javert nodded. “I had a meeting with some magistrates today, it’s good news.”

“You really shouldn’t be doing this for me.”

“I absolutely should be!”

Valjean waved him down. “Fine, but don’t strain yourself, I can see that you’re tired.”

Javert conceded that this was true, but he didn’t mind working tirelessly on Valjean’s case if it would mean his eventual freedom. They talked about the case for a bit, but quickly they moved to other more interesting things and they fell into easy conversation, neither one noticing the time. By the time the hour was up Javert would have given a year of his life for just another minute with Valjean.

“We’re allowed one touch you know.”

Valjean laughed. “We should have spent some time planning what our touch would be so we didn’t waste it.”

“I wonder how far we could stretch the definition of touch.”

Valjean snatched a glance at the guard who was moving towards them rapidly which was a sign they should hurry up. “Same time next week?”

“Of course, I always come.”

“I know, but somehow I’m still surprised.”

Valjean stood and Javert followed suit. They stared at each other for a long while, neither one knowing what to initiate. Eventually Javert reached out for Valjean’s hand.

Valjean’s brow furrowed. “Is this the touch then? You’re going to shake my hand?”

Javert didn’t answer. Instead he took Valjean’s hand reverently in his own, then gently turned his wrist towards him and raised it to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be a super clever reveal where Javert worked out that the tiny wall artist was really Chagnon's brother but Chagnon had taken the hit for his artist brother's graffiti when he was young and then later the accidental murder and something about Chagnon seeing Javert close-up a lot more times than he did in the one scene they had, but then I basically forgot I was going to do that. But I promise it would have been sensational and extremely clever, and Ernest was going to like wet himself because it was just that good, so just pretend it's there...


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